Ink On Paper
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: A series of AU Tyrion/Sansa drabbles charting their existence post A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones and their desire to create a family outside the dangers of King's Landing. Please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: A selection of Sansa/Tyrion AU drabbles which I may or may not continue, written in response to a lovely edit I saw the other night on Tumblr. I haven't read all the books yet so please don't hate me for this- I just adore the idea of these two finally gaining a happy ending!**_

**_Disclaimer: I am sadly not George R.R Martin or the author of the edit from which I stole the names of the children and so cannot lay claim to anything that seems remotely familiar. I am simply a student trying to get back into writing fanfiction again- please don't sue me!_**

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><p><span>Ink On Paper<span>

i)

_Their firstborn, Gerion, was everything that Tyrion had hoped for. Everything that he knew his father had hoped for in both of his sons and had only got in one. Had hoped for and had seen in his brother Jaime, before he lost his hand._

_He was a tall, slim boy with a mop of flaxen hair and deep, aqua blue eyes that held such a hopeful intensity within them that often Tyrion would find himself losing himself within the boys' gaze before coming back to himself and pulling him away._

_Gerion was as sweet, as kind as Sansa had been as he remembered her back before she was spirited to Kings' Landing and fed on the corrupting cocktail of lies and poison administrated by Cersei. He was considerate to his younger siblings, compassionate to his mother and yet sometimes he would become distant and brooding, falling into moods that often lasted days at a time. It was easier to leave him then, they found out; leave him and wait for him to emerge kicking and spluttering from the depths of his mind; eyes wide and scared, mouth crying for his mother._

ii)

_Sansa had often watched her second son, Robb, practice with wooden swords in the tilting yard under the watchful eye of the armourer. There was much of the North in him; that wild, savage, pride that flared up in odd moments; leaping behind his eyes; cackling in his crown of chestnut curls. _

_It was at these times that Sansa sometimes forgot that she was a woman grown and saw herself as a wide eyed girl from the North; revelling in the lights and lustre of Kings' Landing before the rot set in and began to eat away at the glittering city's core. _

_Unlike her other children, the spirit of the North; of her father, her mother, her brothers, even of Ayra seemed to have embedded itself deep within Robb's very soul. Dimly, Sansa remembers holding him when he had first drawn breath; red faced and squawling; his whole body radiating with the northern energy she so remembers from her long lost father and brothers, even the bastard Jon Snow. She sees Robb practice at the tilting yard with Gerion and is suddenly transported back to another yard; to the icy bite of early spring where the haw frost still lay on the ground where, under the beady eye of Septa Mordane and the blushing, whispered giggles of Jeyne Poole, she snatched glances at her brothers' sword play._

iii)

_Joanna was named after his mother. Sansa had planned it, not long after the midwives realised she was carrying a girl, her first daughter. He could do little to resist her now, or resist the name choice; after all, it would be a way of remembering the mother he never knew. Remember the mother who, when he was a child, had been the stuff of Cersei's rages when she flew at him in a red faced, tear blinded temper and blamed him for killing her. Blamed him for ripping her open and allowing her to bleed to death; the sharp pin pricks of pain from her finger nails still leaving a phantom pain to his scalp as she dug in as hard as she could and spat all her hatred into his ear._

_Joanna was full of joy to them. It was her laughter that filled the halls even on the hardest of days, when the road seemed to go on forever, or when the cloud cast by Gerion's moods never seemed to lift. She had Sansa's hair and Tyrion's eyes; bright and bold and beautiful, forever getting into scrapes with Robb; their play tumbling on forever in a never-ending whirlwind of dream filled magic._

iv)

_Their smallest, Lyanna, was Sansa's special girl. Not her favourite; she tried hard not to hold favourites amongst her children and yet Lyanna reminded her so much of her Mother and Ayra combined, that it was hard not for her Northern heart to warm to her. On days when Joanna was supposedly studying and Tyrion was supervising the boys at their lessons, she would sit in the gardens; watching the dappled light filter through the trees in a blaze of burnished gold. _

_Sometimes she would be joined by her other children; tumbling through the grasses with tangled clothes and wide, guiless smiles full of hope for a future she prayed would not be as fraught with uncertainty as her own had been when her Father had been named Hand of the King and summoned to Kings' Landing. Every day, she hoped, prayed, dreamt of a life away from court; away from the scheming backstabbers, the constant mob of whispers and lies pressing down on her from all four corners of the hell ridden cess-pit of a city. Sometimes she hoped, selfishly, she knew, that they would never have to go back there; that this sun soaked utopia would last forever, but she also knew that that wish was foolish. That one day, that dreaded day that seemed such a long way off and yet far too soon, the boys would be fostered by one of the Lannister bannermen and the girls… _

_She doesn't want to think about the girls' fates. Doesn't want to think about the marriage proposals that will sooner or later be coming in for Joanna, think about the suitors, the hours of pouring over pacts with bannermen on which squires would come into fostering, think about having to let go… _

v)

'_Sansa?' She turns. blinking in the slowly setting sun. Tyrion stands across from her on the terrace; the dappled fire of the sinking sun catching on his auburn curls and setting them aglow. Tyrion. The Imp. Casting him a sideways glance, she remembers how much she loathed him in the weeks before their arranged marriage. How she had blamed him for her incarceration in Kings' Landing and her struggle to carry on, to continue to wear the armoured mask of perfect courtesy in front of all those who mocked her. _

_She remembers his words when she had refused to eat; the stubby fingers pushing across a platter full of lemon cakes oozing with sugar across the trestle table as far below them; the waves smashed against the cliffs, continuously smashing away her hopes._

'_Your mother would want you to carry on'._

_The sensation of a hand reaching up to touch her arm. She turns sharply; expecting to see one of the servant girls or the boys but instead finds herself looking down into the mismatched eyes of Tyrion. Looking past him, she can see that the door to the terrace is now ajar; a long, snaking shadow slicing away the sunlight like a knife._

_Is it really that late?_

_She can feel Tyrion's eyes on her again; feel the genuine sense of warmth and affection radiating from the inky pupils as he watches her ponder. _

'_The boys have finished their sword practice', he says finally, by way of conversation. 'Fine marksmen, both of them. Gerion might even make the Kingsguard when he comes of age'. _

_It's a lie and they both know it. _

_It's a lie because Gerion is the oldest, the one that will take Tyrion's name and title, the eldest who will inherit and become second fiddle to Jaime's children if he ever has any. It's a lie because they both know what the other thinks about the Kingsgard._

'_Not yet', she finds herself whispering, her hands almost clutching almost convulsively at the fabric of her gown to steady the suddenly tumultuous earth; spoken almost to herself. 'Not yet, by all the Seven. Not yet.' _

_The weight of the hand she feels being laid on her own is enough to tell her that time is still on their side._

_**Fin**  
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><p><em><strong>AN: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! **_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


	2. On Silent Raven's Wings

_**A/N: Another instalment of these drabbles! Thank you to everyone who has followed and favourited this so far- you have no idea how much your support means to me and I love and thank you from the bottom of my heart!**_

_**Disclaimer: I am sadly not George R.R Martin and so cannot lay claim to anything that seems familiar to both book readers and show watchers! I am simply trying to convey my love for Tyrion/Sansa into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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><p><span>On Silent Raven's Wings<span>

vi)

_She doesn't give Tyrion's comment another thought until a few weeks later when the ravens come from the capital. The mid afternoon sun is dappled against the mullioned glass of the sola windows, casting a tawny glow through the high windows as she bends her head over her latest embroidery. _

_From somewhere down in the bowels of the castle, a window slams._

_She doesn't even think that it could be raven; merely presumes its' one of the servants or even Maester Locke closing a window against a sudden draft. She takes up her needle again but doesn't start sewing immediately. Instead the needle flicks itself through her fingers; the dappled light catching the metal as it twirls and pirouettes across the skin of her palm; flashing minute sparks of fire through the dusky gloom. _

_Ayra had a sword called Needle, she recalls. Or thinks she did; she had never taken much notice or interest in her sister once they arrived in Kings' Landing and she had been whirled away in a cavalcade of light by the social butterflies that were the knights and courtiers. Whirled away into the sticky web of lies and deceit which was to become her life; a life she would desperately try to protect herself against with a shield of icy courtesy._

_A sudden knock at the door makes her start and turn; the fabric slipping from her lap as she rises; concern fluttering palpably at her breast. The children never knock; forever dashing into the solar and out again like the rush of wind chasing at leaves and Tyrion… _

_The door opens onto a pageboy with the sigil of the Lannister lion at his breast. She is so used to seeing their combined sigil; rampant lion back to back with the direwolf head of her father and brother that seeing the lone lion leaves an odd taste in her mouth. _

'_My lady', the pageboy bows and passes over a scroll signed with a wax seal. She cannot stop her hands from shaking as the weight of the flattened wood pulp lies cold and heavy in her palm._

'_You… You may go', she says after a moment; a moment too long, the dread swirling in the pit of her stomach making her want to retch with every passing second. It can't be true. It's not true. It's not true. It's not…. _

_Somewhere in a distant part of her brain that still feels connected to the real world, she marvels at the fact that she has managed to open the seal and unfold the scroll; the thick, cream parchment feeling like a lead weight to her touch. _

_She scans the first few lines of tight, clear script; heart thudding, unwanted, unbidden tears pricking painfully in the corners of her eyes; a dull ache rising through her chest, clutching at her heart like an iron fist as she comes to the closing formalities. _

_It's not true._

_It can't be true._

_She is still standing there, still frozen when her handmaid comes to inform her that supper is being served._

vii)

_Tyrion doesn't say anything that night. He doesn't have to and for that she's grateful._

_Lying in bed watching the candle gutter and spit to its' climax, she reads through the letter over and over again in her minds' eye. Sees the children asleep in their beds; Gerion's hair a cloud of golden curls, face tight in his silent nightmares, Robb curled like a cub, one hand flung out to catch his elder brother should he fall. _

_She sees Joanna with her mane of tawny copper billowing over the pillows, a small smile playing at the corners of her sleep filled lips; smiling in her dreams._

_She even sees Lyanna lying in the little crib cot with her wet nurse at her side; a mass of smiling, broken toothed comfort to the little scrap she can call her youngest daughter._

'_Sansa?' Tyrion's voice is thick and sluggish with sleep as she feels his small, hot paw reach out to touch her own. _

'_Are you well?' His voice has such compassion within it; such genuine, tender concern that her heart almost breaks in her chest. _

'_Yes', the whisper is little more than a breath against her lips, the age old lie being pulled out forever against the coverlet, stopping just in time before the customary 'my Lord' slips out. _

_She knows that he is not convinced. _

'_Sansa, you know I don't like being lied to. What's the matter my love?' The weight of his stubby fingers close momentarily over her hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze._

'_Promise me you won't send the boys' away before they're ready?' She manages at long last; thinking of Gerion with his wide, azure blue eyes and sweet, guiless smile. Thinking of Robb and his prickly Northern pride; which even now, when he has not yet reached his ninth name day is beginning to show and reminds her so much of Robb it sometimes hurts. _

_She doesn't want to think about the girls. _

_The small, chaste kiss to cool her sudden tears pressed to her cheek speaks volumes as as she leans into him; grateful for his warmth, for his support when her mind is in such bitter turmoil. _

'_There… There was a raven,' she manages to whisper, finally, brokenly. In the darkness the fingers tighten their grip, silently urging her to continue and yet, somehow, begging her to stop. _

_She swallows, desperately trying to think of ways that will make this less painful for him. For both of them. _

'_It was from King's Landing, my love.' The words come easily enough, however much it hurts her to say them. _

'_From House Clegane, you mean', the bitterness in Tyrion's voice is biting, but she refuses to comment on it. _

'_They've made an offer', she whispers; knowing she'll have to say it before she loses her nerve. 'An offer for Joanna's hand in marriage'._

_His silence tells her his answer before he even utters it._

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><p><strong><em>Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! Sadly updates may be few and far between after this one, because I've got essays, presentations, rehearsals etc as well as full days at Uni so please be patient and I will do my upmost to update when I can!<em>**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


	3. Moments Alone

_**A/N: Another little drabble for all you wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review this story! I am so sorry for the hiatus but a little something called end of semester exams as well as rehearsals/general uni life got in the way of writing and it's only now that I've found the time to write- please accept my most sincere apologies!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I sadly am not George R.R Martin or the producers of the show, I cannot hold any claim to the recognisable characters in A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones. I am simply trying to put my fantasies about Tyrion and Sansa's future into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

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><p><span>Moments Alone<span>

_Time seems to speed up after that. Tyrion begins to see Joanna everywhere he goes; Joanna with her mane of burnished copper curls and his deep, hazel eyes, haunting him like a spectre from beyond the grave. He sees the copper mane with its unruly ringlets of tumbling curls reflecting off the torch brackets in the passageways, sees the gap in her teeth, sees the dimples in her cheeks, the smattering of freckles caressing the bridge of her nose…_

_Over and over he tells himself to pull himself together, tells himself that they still have time left as he pours over menus and bills for the upcoming arrival of the Clegane entourage and all the necessary pomp and ceremony that will come with it. His mouth feels dry; dry and bitter and barren as he watches the children tumble through the halls; hears Sansa call after them, hears Lyanna's cry as she desperately tries to keep up with her older siblings…_

_He sees Joanna spin past him; barefoot and breathless, even in the frosted froes of early spring. Sees her and wants to hold onto her; to enfold her into the warmth and safety of all that she knows and never let her go. _

_But he can't do that. He's knows that. Years of bitter experience; first with Tysha, then with Shae and then Sansa have taught him that… The look of desperate pity etched like ink that had burnt through his child bride's eyes as she knelt to hand him the cup on the dreaded day of Joffery's wedding to Margery seems to swim before his vision and he blinks it back; desperately trying to forget Cersei's roar of wounded pain, the horrid retching being forced through his nephew's throat as he struggled for air… _

_A sudden knock at the door makes him jump and turn as the hinges groan audibly in reply; feeling the breath suddenly caught in his throat exhale as he sees that it is only Joanna, and not a herald bringing in more news that he does not wish to deal with in the present moment._

'_Father?' She looks young, too young; younger than her twelve name days and Tyrion's heart is suddenly filled with pity as he watches her standing in the doorway taking in the softly dappled afternoon light that bathes the solar. _

_He stretches out his arm to her as she waits for a moment too long, her teeth worrying at her lower lip as she does do._

'_It's all right little one', he tries to say; but the words feel dry and worthless; his mouth tasting as if he has swallowed a bowl of ash. _

_A moment passes. A moment that feels long, almost too long, before she has crossed the floor and her face is buried in his arms; a bundle of skinny, leggy nine year old, softly weeping against his chest. It's as she knows what is about to happen and as he draws her closer, one hand reaching up to catch itself gently within her mane of auburn curls, he wishes she didn't._

_Wishes that she hadn't listened behind locked doors, or hidden in cupboards as he had drawn up the plans and held embassies with representatives from House Clegane, laughing with her siblings as if this was just a game. _

_A game it was, he thinks dryly. A political game that ended not in the throwing of flowers but in the rolling of heads, the tearing of families, of Kingdoms, of lives, unless some agreement was reached. A game… A game played with die slick with the blood of the Seven Kingdoms as the powerful continued to play on regardless._

_The bundle of life in his arms has quietened as he glances down at the mane of auburn hair shielding the deep, hazel eyes stabbed red with silent tears. _

'_It must be done my love', he tells her quietly. _

'_But… But why?' A spark of that age old fire that he dimly remembers seeing in Cersei's eyes when their father had informed her of the proposed marriage to Loras Tyrell. _

_He can't answer her that. He knows he should, but also knows that this will also hurt her further. _

_Instead he simply pulls her closer; listening to the ragged, tear stained breaths landing fast and damp against his chest. The breaths that he clings to and counts, despite himself; wishing that he would never have to let her go. _

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><p><strong><em>AN: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticism etc are like chocolate to my brain!_**

**_Much love and enjoy x_**


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